Reaching across the sofa, I took the beer out of his hand and stole a swig. “I guess I should start painting my face and yelling at the refs. Since I’m such a big fan.”
I stretched the bottle back in his direction, but he didn’t take it back. He just looked at me so intently that I wondered if he could hear my thoughts. “Callahan,” he said slowly. “Are you a hockey player?”
For a minute, we just blinked at each other. I’d always been a player — since I was five years old. And now, at best, I was just a fan. And that really stung.
Swallowing hard, I answered the question. “I was a player. Before, you know… Before I gave it up.” I felt a prickle behind my eyes. But I was not going to cry in front of Hartley. I took a deep breath in through my nose.
He licked his lips. “You told me your father was a high-school coach.”
“He was my high-school coach.”
“No shit?” Hartley cracked open a new beer without ever breaking eye contact. “What position do you play?”
Did I play. Past tense.
“Center, of course.” I knew what he was really asking. “Captain. All state. Recruited by colleges.” It was so hard to tell him this — to show him exactly what I’d lost. Most people didn’t want to hear it. They would change the subject, and ask if I’d considered taking up knitting, or chess.
But Hartley only reached over, clinking his beer bottle against the one that I still held. “You know, I knew I liked you, Callahan,” he said. At that, my battle against tears became even tougher. But I took a long pull off the beer in my hand and fought them off. There was another moment of silence before Hartley broke it. “So…I guess this means I should teach you how to flip the screen perspective, so you can always see where your defensemen are. Slide over here.”
Happy to have that conversation over with, I scooted closer to him on the sofa. Hartley wrapped his arm around me in order to hold the controller in front of my body where I could see it. “If you push these two buttons at the same time,” he said, depressing them with his thumbs, and looking up at the screen, “it toggles between the player’s view and the coach’s.” I was tucked snugly against him, where I could feel his breath on my ear when he spoke.
“Right,” I breathed. The heat of his bare chest at my back was incredibly distracting. “That’s…useful,” I stammered.
As he showed me a couple more maneuvers, I inhaled the clean scent of his soap, and admired the sculpted forearms reaching around to encircle mine. There should be poetry written about those arms. Hartley explained something about body-checking, but I didn’t quite catch it. Every time he said “body” all I could think about was his.
“Okay?” he finished, as I struggled to take in oxygen. “Now when I beat you, you won’t be able to claim ignorance.” Giving my short ponytail a gentle yank, he withdrew his embrace.
With flushed cheeks, I scooted quickly back to my own end of the couch. “Come on, then,” I said, mustering up a few brain cells. “I’m ready to mow you down.”
“We’ll just see about that,” he chuckled.
The next Friday night, I bumped into Hartley as we were both coming in the front door of McHerrin. “RealStix later?” I asked. Please?
He shook his head. “The hockey team doesn’t start their play season for another week, so Bridger’s having a party. You should come — there are only six stairs. I made him count them for me. Can you do six stairs?”
I considered the question. “I can do them, as long as I don’t mind looking like a drunk giraffe on stilts. Only less graceful.”
He grinned. “That’s me on a good day. I’m going over at eight, and I’ll knock on your door. Bring Dana, and anyone else you feel like.” He went into his room.
“Do you want to go to Bridger’s party tonight?” I asked Dana when she finally came home.
“I would, but I can’t,” she said. “There are two rush parties. Will you help me choose an outfit?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling even better about my decision not to rush a singing group. If you had to sing well and dress well, I was not a good candidate.
We chose a slinky purple sweater for Dana, over jet-black jeans. She looked pretty, but it didn’t look like she was trying too hard. “But what are you wearing?” she asked me.
I only shrugged, glancing down at my Harkness T-shirt. “It’s a kegger in Bridger’s room. Who would dress up for that?”
Dana rolled her eyes at me. “Come on, Corey. The jeans are okay, but you need a cuter top.” She strode into my room and began opening dresser drawers. “How does this one fit you?”
“Well, it’s pink.”
“I can see that. Put it on.”
Humoring her, I threw my Harkness tee on the bed and grabbed the top that Dana held out.
— Hartley
When I opened the door to the girls’ common room, I could hear voices from behind Corey’s half-open bedroom door.
“There. Can I go now?” Corey asked.